A little rushed, and hardly a great post, but considering I've never actually seen a ranch on anything other than television, I figure I could have done worse.
- -
The Sun's rays shone down on Jericho's head and back unrelentingly. He had been walking for days, and his body was now weak from exhausting, dehydration, and not eating for well over a week. His clothes were ragged, and he had made a head garment from his striped shirt to protect his head, as to avoid heat-stroke. The once white t-shirt had collected grey and brown dust to the point where he doubted the t-shirt would ever be white again, even with the use of industrial grade bleach. His slacks, once pristine, - and in some people's opinions stylish - were now tattered, and he had ripped them off from the knee down. Dirt on Jericho's face had collected - no one would suspect him of being anything but a bum or lower class white trash at this point.
Jericho swore loudly. His right shoe's sole was worn out. Groaning, he removed the shoe from his blistered and sore feet. "That's the last time I jump out of a helicopter in the middle of nowhere," he muttered under his breath. He presumed that "the middle of nowhere" was somewhere in west Texas, but considering the precarious situation he found himself in, there was no way of knowing. One thing was for sure: Wherever Jericho was, it was desolate. Vast deserts with cacti and shrubs everywhere. Half an hour ago, he thought he spotted some kind of animal on the horizon, and had tried following it, in hopes that it was domesticated. A hill was ahead, and he wearily climbed it to the top. In the distance, a number of bovines were being herded towards what Jericho thought looked like a ranch.
"Finally," he said, continuing his slow march towards civilization.
- -
"What the hell do you mean 'He got away,'?!" Grant Remington shouted at his subordinates. "You had him in a helicopter. How do you lose someone who's in your God damned helicopter?"
"It- uh, it went down, Sir," one of the three men explained, in a fearful tone of voice.
"I know it went down, you imbecile!" Mr. Remington gripped the revolver in his hand, and raised it for a moment in anger, before letting it fall to his side again. "Youre telling me you had him and lost him?!"
"H-he's not an easy t-target, Sir." The operative justified himself, still fearing for his life.
Grant Remington paused. It was true that Jericho Dark was not a simple target. Henchmen like Bob would not suffice: experience had proven that. Grant raised his revolver, ****ed the trigger, and shoved it into Bobs right cheek. Ive had it with you ****ing pussies." he said, holstering his gun and sitting down at his desk. With a tired and irritated motion, he grabbed the phone on his desk, and dialled a number.
"This is Grant Remington, director of the Special Activities Division. I need a special kind of operative for a mission." the head of the CIA and NCS' more shady operations said firmly, before pausing. "The hybrid we recruited is available? Good. Let him know my team is coming to pick him up.
- -
A quiet, paced knock on the hotel room door woke the Ruger Man, sleeping with his eyes open in a chair facing the door. Silently and quickly, he pulled out his silenced pistol, and walked to the door, aiming where an average-height mans throat would be while doing so. His right brown eye carefully approached the peep-hole. Two men in government-issue suits were waiting outside. His hand swiftly unlocked the door, opened it to the chain's full extent, and aimed the gun at one of the men's heart. Identify yourselves.
Both agents showed their IDs. We were told you would cooperate.
I dont like working on teams, the assassin stated, lowering his gun, removing the chain, and opening the door.
Were professionals. Youve worked for our branch before.
The Ruger Man knew all too well what the Special Activities Division was tasked with: assassinations to benefit the United States, and he was more familiar with them than he preferred. All right, I dont suppose I have a choice anymore, do I? he asked rhetorically, while tapping his heart. Underneath the suit, next to his heart, was a bomb to ensure his cooperation. We still do this my way, comprenden?
We were told you were in charge. An agent explained, and handed over a manila envelope. Its imperative that we attack now, while we know where he is.
Skimming through the targets file, the assassin realized something, and said to himself: This isnt going to be easy.
- -
Jericho Dark stared at his empty plate. If not for his being a guest, he would probably have licked it clean. Starving for a week did that to a man. The owners of the ranch had been gracious and apparently thought he was some kind of vagrant. They told him he could stay the night, which was an offer he had no intention of turning down. The commandos body ached of exhaustion; some of the injuries from the crash were still bothering him. Silently, he made a promise to himself that he would never knock out a helicopter pilot in mid-air ever again while being inside the helicopter.
Hitting the ground had been extremely painful. By his account, at least six ribs were broken, along with his right arm, and both his ankles. It took around three days before he could walk, and even then, walking was no picnic. Regeneration only worked efficiently when it could focus on one smaller problem at a time, like a gunshot wound, a cut, or a single missing limb. The ordeal had put his body completely out of commission.
Who was after him this time was unknown. There were a whole slew of people who wanted him dead; either for what he knew, what he refused to say, or who he had killed. The helicopter and expertly trained operatives that captured him pointed to one man: Grant Remington. It would not be long before they came after him again, and by then, he had to be far, far away from this small ranch in west Texas.
He looked out the window. Tomorrow nights a full moon, Jericho thought to himself, as he made his last trek of the day, walking towards his bed in the cramped guest room.
- -
The SAD plane landed in Texas around one PM. No one said a word about the mission. Everything had been planned out to the last detail. This time, Jericho Dark was not getting away. There were six people in the team; a pilot, a gunner, three of SAD operatives and of course the invaluable werewolf assassin. The Ruger Man found himself repeating the plan over and over to himself in his head.
There were only a few signs of civilization left in the area where Jericho crashed, and they had scanned the area with a new, secret satellite project that allowed long-range thermal imaging. The satellite had picked up on Jericho heading for the ranch, and after that, his fate was sealed. A modified Huey awaited them, and they rushed to get to it. The helicopter had a mounted M60 machinegun, and the gunner merrily informed that it fired explosive rounds.
ETA is two hours, the pilot explained, starting the engines.
- -
Jericho woke up to the sound of his door opening. Groggily, he opened his eyes, only to see the silencer of a black Ruger Mark 1 aimed at his head. Get your clothes on, the Hispanic man with suit and red tie commanded. Jericho slowly obeyed. He had no desire to get shot.
Remington sent you? the commando asked.
I dont know his name. Drop your gun on the floor and kick it over to me.
Jericho could barely resist the temptation to whip his gun out from the pillow and shoot the man in the face, but there was something strange about him, and so he slowly complied. The man removed the magazine from the Colt 1911, before tucking it into his pants.
Try anything funny, and youre a dead man. Lets walk outside.
The surprise wakeup call had left Jericho oblivious of the noise outside: a helicopter. There was no way in Hell he was getting on another one. They were close to the front door now, and Jericho had no choice but to act. The Ruger Man was no fool, and kept Jericho at a healthy distance in front of himself, but this was no guarantee against the commandos attacks. He prepared his muscles for the challenge ahead. In the time it would take if Jericho dropped a pin, he spun around, and lunged towards the assassin.
Ugh, the Ruger Man involuntarily said as the gun flew out of his hand and slid several yards away. They were still inside the house, and the helicopter noise was too loud for any of the agents to realize something had gone wrong. A well-placed round-house kick sent the assassin straight to the floor. The Ruger Man then began crawling rapidly towards his gun, but to no avail. A solid kick to the abdomen left him groaning, and Jericho walked over and took the Ruger before cautiously checking the window to see if the agents knew something was up.
The instant he felt The Ruger Mans fist make contact with the back of his neck, Jericho knew he had been incredibly careless. He tumbled to the ground, dropping the gun, wincing in pain. The assassin did not stop there. A solid kick to the groin followed. Jerichos eyes saw the mans right hand pick up his gun again.
Youre one hell of a pesky bastard, arent you? the Ruger Man said, smirking while blood crept down the side of his mouth from Jerichos attacks.
Right back at you, the commando responded, still experiencing excruciating pain from the Ruger Mans solid blows.
You know, I was told I didnt have to bring you in alive. The Hispanic said, apparently musing over the idea. He aimed his gun at Jerichos head and pulled the trigger, but Jerichos combat instincts were sharpened now, and dodged. The commando bounced back on his feet, and sent a devastating strike towards his attackers solar plexus, which he easily countered, returning a fist of his own aimed at the kidneys but the assassin was too slow. Jericho grabbed the assassins wrist, and in an instant channelled enough disruptive energy into the mans nervous system that he nearly collapsed then and there.
Its been fun, but Ive really got to run, Jericho excused himself, before sprinting towards the back door.
- -
Less than twenty seconds later, the Ruger Man awoke. An agent was hovering over him with a somewhat disappointed expression.
He escaped, he explained, dazed and confused. The agent helped him up, and the others quickly entered. The back door! Go! Now!
The Ruger Man was in no mood for a game of hide-and-seek. The four men spotted Jericho run behind a shed roughly fifty yards away, and opened fire. By the time they were finished shooting, the shed was riddled with bullet holes. They all sprinted towards the shed. Some fifteen feet away, Jericho was limping towards the barn. The Ruger Man took solid aim, and pulled the trigger